Paris with teenagers: mind your manners

The Eugene, Ore., playground had an ex-USAF F-89 interceptor, carrier of nukes and the epitome of Cold War aviation technology. Its nose cone used to contain radar equipment, but on this day, 41 years ago, it contained me. I was a sweltering seven-year-old expatriate Canadian stuffed into an aluminum prison by 10-year-old girls. What had I done?

I was guilty of hogging the cockpit. Even in a playground, culture matters.

Forty years later, the only nuclear in my life was my family. However, the subject of culture was inescapable. It was, my wife Susan decreed, time to expand our teenage sons' cultural horizons. What better way to undertake a cultural pilgrimage than to take them on a cycling tour of the Pyrenees, and then on to the cradles of western culture, Paris, Rome and London?

However, teenage boys are famously resistant to cultural voyages. Parental anxiety had dissipated after several days of cycling in the Pyrenees, but the City of Lights has an imposing reputation for punishing the uncouth. En route, I summoned my inner General Patton and addressed the troops: "In Singapore, they cane you, in Paris, they snub you. Speak French. Mind your manners."

Our first test occurred during the cab ride from Orly airport to our lodgings at the Citadines Opera Grande Boulevard Aparthotel. Our cabbie, Mr. Remi, was a living Parisian archetype: corduroy jacket, reeking of acrid dark tobacco, pointing out palaces of culture, but reserved towards les Americains. Eventually his diffidence is eroded by my Canadian-accented French. I proffer a tip, but it's waved away.

Even without tipping, central Paris exacts a financial toll. Our clean and modern suite at the Citadines Aparthotel costs $550 a night. It's dear, but the room has a kitchen, access to laundry and a games room.

The cultural indoctrination begins with a walk to the Musee de L'Orangerie, located in the Jardin des Tuileries. Walking depletes a teen's otherwise inexhaustible fountain of energy, a fount that, unchecked, might be put to unproductive ends.

A half-hour later, under a milky late-summer sky, our Paris Museum Pass allows us to bypass the line. This museum is an easy challenge. Its 19th-century impressionists are recognizable and fascinating. It's eerie to see Monets at your nose, and to discern the brush strokes and the errors: after all, these guys had to make a living, and were prolific.

Upstairs are the large oval rooms, serene spaces for viewing Monet's Les Nympheas. On their own, these murals of water lilies are miraculous. It's a wonder how Monet, with his eyes clouded by cataracts, could work the floor-to-ceiling canvas, a stroke here, a swipe there, and predict how a healthy eye would assemble the smudges from five metres away.

The paintings were dedicated in 1927 by Monet's friend, French ex-prime minister and war leader Clemenceau, to post-First World War peace. Like so much of Paris, the display represents the Old World coming to grips with the new era's dual potentialities: beauty or destruction, accessible to all.

Less profound is the next stop, the Eiffel Tower. Girls in sparse tops pout and guys in capri pants haul on cigarettes. It's not the sublime culture of the L'Orangerie, but the views from the top are tremendous.

For dinner, the Citadines staff recommend the nearby La Taverne Brasserie. It does not disappoint, and the boys devour shish kebab, entrecote, fries, and salads. The room features gold trim, rich red walls, oak fixtures, and overlooks the antic street life on the Boulevard des Italiens. The meal for five is not expensive (by Parisian standards) at 150 euros.

Back at the Citidines by midnight, our day is done. However, for many Parisians it's just starting. Vendredi night fever takes hold, and with it, there's yowling, bleating and hooting, but it's a happy noise.

The next morning, culture is set aside for a trip to the Musee de l'Air et de

l'Espace (MAE). The Metro passes are activated and we leap onto the subway. The passes allow any combination of Metro, RER (suburban trains) and buses. The Metro is a great show. Business-suited urbanites, Algerians in desert robes and youths with boom boxes leaven the mix.

Eventually, we arrive at the MAE. Four years earlier, on a solo visit, I had entered the building, rain drumming on its roof, thunderstorms and the Tour de France keeping everyone away.

Now, as it did then, soft light shines through the linen skin of the main hall's pioneer aircraft. These birds are delicate constructions of wooden sticks, dripping oil and reeking of paint. They're archaic, yet they represent a tipping point in history. Although their moustachioed pilots wore wool uniforms from the 19th century, the craft represented world transforming technology. In the next 100 years, air travel would connect continents, yet simultaneously hold the potential to destroy them.

The boys and I ramble to the hall of modern French prototypes. These aircraft, like so much that's French, represent genius, but sometimes an attraction to absurd concepts. We marvel at cylindrical craft that are all ramjet and no payload capacity. Others gape like huge sharks, all air intake and little room for the pilot. The names are brave; Griffon, Trident, and Mirage. No less evocative is the perfume: eau de airplane. Jet fuel, paint, and leather spice the air. It's a fragrance I recall from the F-89's radar bay.

On our return, we emerge from the Metro and into another example of the old order being confronted by the new.

This time it's a pro-Congo demonstration swaying down the boulevard. The parade, a call to remember turmoil in an old French colony, takes place under the gaze of muscular gendarmes. Whistles bleat, protesters dance, but it's well-mannered, and there is no violence.

This evening we dine in. A wonder of Paris is the number of supermarkets in the city's heart. We shop at the Monoprix, and for 60 euros we have baguettes, meat, potatoes, salad, sorbet, lemonade, Orangina, two bottles of Bordeaux and chocolate.

Sunday is the last day of our tour, and our chance to ride, sans cars, down the Champs Elysee. We stream down the Champs and circle the Arc de Triomphe. Later, we watch the professional riders speed across the cobbles of the Place de la Concorde.

The bikes go to the airport, and are sent home. The Air Canada freight staff cluck at the tariff for shipping bikes, and probably my fractured French, too. However, they take pity and discount the toll. More kindnesses occur on the bus ride back. We transfer at a terminal, and our driver escorts us to the connecting bus.

Then to the Louvre. On this day, a considerable number of the world's six billion inhabitants are present and staring at the Mona Lisa. We surf through the hallways, hunting for recognizable treasures. Some, like the Mona Lisa, are non-descript. Yet others, like Gericault's Raft of the Medusa, are a living window to a nightmare. After two hours our minds are boggled and the diagnosis is clear: we're suffering from "Arts-heimer's" syndrome.

We give the boys a reprieve by skipping Notre Dame, but next day insist on attending Versailles. The first spectacle is the snaking line of those who need tickets, waiting on the uneven cobbles. For holders of Paris Museum passes, the wait is only 10 minutes.

On entry it's clear that Versailles is, even centuries after the revolution, an edifice to the philosophy that the state existed to support one family. No wonder there was a revolt.

The salons are replete with elaborate wood carvings, celestial ceiling paintings, and walls plastered with embroidered textiles. The rooms are decorated with one-of-a-kind clockworks (a clock that keeps time till 9999 -- take that Timex), and other baubles that have no parallel. The tourists, mute and uncomprehending, stumble into each other, digital cams held aloft.

The palace exterior is equally mind-twisting. Lovers of gardens and architecture will be transported into ecstasies. However, these staples of domestic fantasies may be received with less enthusiasm by male teens. A visit to Versailles, on the heels of the Louvre, may encourage teenage travellers to demand that heads roll once more.

On our return, there's one last chance for an aeronautical pilgrimage. I had been told that the best aviation shop in Paris, The Pilot's Store, had relocated from the MAE. The store's website gave their new address as No. 1 Avenue Gustave Eiffel. Youngest son Matthew and I scamper off the RER and jog, in the shadow of the Tour Eiffel, to the Avenue Gustave Eiffel. We walk its length -- all of 50 metres. Where is No. 1?

Oh. There ... it ... is.

Back on the train, Matthew and I admire the joke. No. 1 Avenue Gustav Eiffel is a WC (water closet or public washroom). Another Anglo construct -- the mirthless Parisian -- crumbles like a stale croissant.

The next day, we're on our way to le Gare du Nord and Rome, but Paris continues to defy its stereotype. Parisians help us down the Metro stairs, lending a hand with our bags.

At le Gare du Nord, we speak in French, and the clerk responds en anglais. Same thing at the sandwich stall. Looks like we've passed the test. Amity has transcended traditional battle lines -- English vs. French, teen vs. parent. Culture has triumphed, and peace is the dividend. For what is culture if not manners? And, what is war but the lack of them?

It's a lesson that, for the last two millennia, has been a long time coming.

A lesson that was front and centre during our day outing to Vimy Ridge (a story for another day) and at our next stop: Rome.

IF YOU GO:

Buy Paris Metro and Museum passes here. (The AMA travel agency sourced ours.) Don't discount streetside food shops. The fare is cheap and fresh. Bring cash. Not all credit cards work in France. However, most ABM cards will work at ATMs. Check with your bank. Speak French. And mind your manners.

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